CHAPTER 9
IRIS
I wake up surprisingly refreshed, which is weird considering I spent half the night staring at the ceiling, obsessing over this meeting.
He sent a new address, not his usual downtown spot.
Tall gates line the streets, manicured lawns stretching toward houses that look more like museums than homes.
Even the air smells different. I wouldn't be surprised if the local air freshener is Creed Aventus.
The GPS leads me through winding streets and past security checkpoints until I pull up to what I can only describe as a castle. Multiple bodyguards at the gate. Gardeners tending to flowers all around this estate. I have to admit, Ilay Ivanovich has bastard money.
I pull into the driveway and get out. A man in a sharp suit appears before I even close the door, nodding once as he reaches for my keys.
I hand them over, and he gives a brief bow before slipping behind the wheel and disappearing down the drive.
I walk toward the entrance, keeping my spine straight and my expression neutral.
Confidence is half the battle in my line of work.
Fake it well enough and people believe it.
His assistant meets me at the door and leads me through a long, quiet hallway.
We stop in front of a heavy wooden door.
She knocks twice and waits for the low, gruff “enter” that filters through.
When she opens it, I realize the room isn’t an office at all—it’s a library.
Floor-to-ceiling shelves line every wall, packed with old leather-bound volumes.
Warm light spills from antique lamps, softening the shadows, and the whole place smells like cedar and aging paper.
And there he is. Seated in an armchair by the window, a cream sweater draped over him and loose gray pants hanging comfortably on his frame.
Glasses rest on the bridge of his nose, a few strands of blond hair slipping into his eyes.
The tattoos at his collar peek out, dark against soft fabric.
He’s reading, completely absorbed, as if the rest of the world doesn’t exist.
I clear my throat to let him know I’m here.
He doesn’t look up immediately, instead, he finishes the sentence he’s reading, closes the book with a finger between the pages, then lifts his eyes and smiles at me.
He sets the book aside and crooks two fingers, calling me closer.
I walk toward him but stop just short of his reach.
It doesn’t matter. He catches my wrist and pulls me down, kissing me before my brain catches up.
I shove him back, hard enough that the chair rocks.
“Are you out of your mind?” I snap. He settles back, unruffled. “Good afternoon to you too.”
“We’re here to work.”
“We will,” he says, rising to his full height. He’s broad, warm, and far too comfortable stepping into my space. “But first, tell me… do you like my collection?”
I blink. “What collection?” He gestures lazily at the shelves. I glance around. “You have a lot of books.”
“A lot,” he repeats with a smirk. “That the best you can do?”
“I’m not here to stroke your ego.”
“Good,” he says quietly. “I’d rather you use your hands for other things.” Before I can respond, he places his hand on the small of my back and starts guiding me toward the desk on the far side of the room.
I swat his hand away. "I can walk." He puts it right back. I swat again. "Stop touching me."
His hand returns, firmer this time, his palm warm through my blouse. We do this twice more before I give up.
"You really don’t fear prison," I mutter. "your welcome to sue me," he says quietly.
He leads me to a large mahogany desk positioned near the window. Files are already stacked there, waiting. Before I can sit, there's a soft knock at the door.
A woman enters carrying a tray with tea and coffee. She sets it down without a word and leaves.
Ilay pours tea into one cup, coffee into another. He hands me the tea.
I take it, annoyed that he guessed correctly.
"So," I say, forcing myself back into work mode. "This property. You said it belonged to Professor Lev."
“It did,” Ilay says, sinking into the chair across from me. He stretches, legs out, effortless. “He ran the biggest cybersecurity company in Europe. Built it from scratch. Genius, completely paranoid… but a genius all the same.”
"And he's dead."
"Yes, he died Two months ago."
"Does he have children, family, a wife?"
"None." I frown. "What about the lover you mentioned?"
Ilay picks up his coffee and takes a slow sip. "Professor Lev was gay. Had a partner for nearly twenty years. But he didn't leave him anything in the will."
"Why not, that’s diabolical?"
"Pride. Spite. Fear of judgment. Take your pick." Ilay sets his cup down. "The partner could contest it, but he hasn't. He's grieving and doesn't want the headache."
"So the property just sits there."
"Exactly." I lean back in my chair, studying him. "And you want it because…?"
"Because it's valuable," he says simply. "The company. The assets. The intellectual property. All of it unclaimed. Sitting there waiting for someone smart enough to take it."
"Or ruthless enough."
He smiles. "Semantics." I open the first file and start reading. Contracts. Deeds. Shell companies layered on top of offshore accounts layered on top of more shell companies. Legal jargon designed to confuse anyone who isn't a lawyer or a forensic accountant.
***
I don’t notice time passing. I don’t notice the small luxuries that quietly appear beside me on the desk, chocolate truffles arranged on a delicate plate, tiny pastries stacked like little towers, a fresh cup of tea placed within reach every hour, steam curling lazily from its surface.
By the time I look up, it's dark outside.
My back aches and my eyes burn. Ilay walks in and stops beside my chair.
"You should stop," he says. I shake my head. "I need to finish this."
"Your eyes are red."
"I'm fine." Before I can argue further, he bends down and scoops me out of the chair.
"Put me down," I say, smacking his chest with the file still in my hand. He laughs. "I like when you touch me."
I stop hitting him immediately. He carries me out of the study and into a private elevator. We go up four floors. The doors open to a hallway lined with expensive art and doors that look like hotel suites.
"Where are you taking me?" I demand.
"To bed."
"Excuse me?"
"To sleep," he clarifies. "I'm not letting you work yourself to death."
"This isn't a guest room."
He pushes open the biggest door at the end of the hall way. "It is now."
The room is enormous. A king-sized bed dominates the center, floor-to-ceiling windows stretch along one wall, and soft, warm lighting casts everything in an intimate, almost inviting glow.He sets me down gently. "Go take a bath," he says. I cross my arms. "Get out first."
His expression falls. "You're kicking me out of my own room?"
"Yes, since this is MY guestroom I deserve a little privacy."
He grins. "As you wish, my love." Then he leaves. I walk into the bathroom and freeze.
Sitting beside the marble tub are my exact soaps. My loofah. My body lotion. The brand I have to special order because it's always sold out.
How does he know?
I stare at the collection, torn between flattered and freaked out.
This is creepy. Definitely creepy.
But also kind of…No. Stop. I take a long bath, trying to clear my head. When I get out, I find one of his shirts laid out on the counter. Smelling faintly like citrus and cotton candy, it’s a very weird combination, but hey if I’m smelling it and not gagging, its good.
I snoop through his things until I find a bottle. Clive Christian No. 1. Imperial Majesty.
Well, now I know what he uses. I put on the shirt. It's huge. The sleeves hang past my hands, the hem falls to my thighs, turning it into a shirt dress I look good, I wonder if I can keep it. The door opens and Ilay walks in stopping dead in his tracks.
His gaze pins me in place and his lips part fractionally, a flicker of surprise crossing his features, and for a moment he seems unmoored, caught entirely off guard.
I snap out a quick warning, “Don’t get ideas,” yet he does not respond, he does not move, he merely stands there staring, the weight of his look pressing down on me in a way that makes the air between us almost unbearable.
I turn away, grab a pillow from the bed, and drop it in the center of the mattress.
"You sleep here," I say, patting one side.
"I sleep here." I add another pillow. Then another. Building a wall. His jaw twitches. Then he stalks toward me. Slowly. My heart kicks hard against my chest wondering what he’ll do.
He stops right in front of me. Close enough that I can feel the heat coming off him.
He looks down at my face. Then without a word he turns, walking to his side of the bed, and lies down facing away from me.
That's it. No teasing. No crossing the line. Just sleep. I stand there for a full minute, confused.
Why am I disappointed? I climb into bed and close my eyes. I hate that he respected the pillows.
I hate that part of me wishes he hadn't. This man is making me just as crazy as he is.
***
I wake up hot, and for a moment I can’t figure out why, until I feel the solid weight beneath me and the familiar scent curling around me.
I glance down and realize I’m sprawled across Ilay, my arms are draped over his chest, and my leg hooked over his hip, my face buried in his neck, my hair everywhere but my side of the freaking bed.
Shit, if he notices this, he’ll never let me live it down.
I try to move carefully, hoping not to wake him, and peek at his face.
His eyes are open, catching mine, and he’s smiling, clearly aware he caught me.
Before I can react, his hand slides to my ass coping a feel, and just like that, every coherent thought I had vanishes.
I yelp and scramble back, nearly tumbling off the bed.
“You…how dare you…” He stretches lazily.
"Look around, baby girl. You're on my side. "
I look. Damn it. I am. "The bed's too small," I mutter.
He laughs. "You sleep like a wild animal."
I glare at him, feeling my face heat up. "Don't flatter yourself," I snap. "You probably rolled into me."
"Sure," he says, grinning. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."
***
I get dressed quickly in the Lounge clothes that have been laid out for me.
The fabric feels soft and comfortable on my skin.
I go downstairs to the study and bury myself in the files again.
I need to focus. Too much back and forth with him is messing with my head.
Hours pass, and I forget to eat breakfast. I push it off until my stomach growls in protest. From the corner of my eyes I see Ilay chuckle then walk from his chair to where I’m sitting.
"I'll have the cook make you something."
"No, don’t bother them" I say quickly. "Plus, there’s a dish I specifically want. I'll make it myself, so don’t worry and point me to the kitchen."
He raises an eyebrow but leads me to the kitchen, and when we step inside, I can’t help but gape.
It’s massive, more like a high-tech laboratory than a kitchen, with every gadget and tool a chef could dream of.
If this were a sci-fi movie, they’d call it “state of the art,” and honestly, I wouldn’t argue.
"You've never cooked in here," I say.
"Once or twice," he admits. "But I wouldn't mind my wife cooking for me."
I shoot him a look and open the fridge. "I'm using your ingredients. Don't complain."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
I pull out chicken, vegetables, spices and start cooking my special spiced chicken and potato stew. It’s a hangover slash comfort food. Ilay sits at the island, watching me.
The kitchen fills with the smell of simmering spices. "Smells incredible," he says. "Wait till you taste it." Two hours later, I plate the food and set it in front of him.
He takes one bite and his eyes go wide. "God," he says. "You're not only smart but a great cook too." I scoff. "Don't get used to it. This is a one-time thing."
"Yes, ma'am." He finishes two plates and we clean up together. Then head back upstairs.
SOMEWHERE IN RUSSIA.
I sit in a guarded office building with two other men. The room smells of cigars and stale alcohol, but the tension in the room is another matter. Dmitri slams his crystal glass onto the floor and it shatters with a sharp crack.
“How dare he?” he snarls, his face flushing dark with rage. “How dare he hand this to some nobody lawyer? A startup? We’re talking about a trillion-dollar inheritance and he gives it to her?” He paces, his movements turning jerky and aggressive. I watch him, staying silent.
“I WAS RECOMMENDED TO HIM. ME. YEARS OF WORK, CONNECTIONS, RESULTS. AND NOW HE TOSSES IT ALL TO SOME WOMAN WITH A LAW DEGREE AND NICE LEGS?” HE LETS OUT A HARSH LAUGH. “WHY DID WE EVER LET HIM LEAD?”
I lean back in my chair, keeping my voice even.
“You know how it works here. No one lets anyone lead. Leadership is earned. By strength.” Dmitri scoffs.
“Strength? He’s gone soft. All for what?
Some lawyer he wants to fuck? I say we kidnap that minx and kill her.
” Viktor, silent until now, lifts his gaze.
Giving him a death glare. “Watch yourself, Dmitri.”
“No.” Dmitri’s fists clench. “No more watching. No more waiting. We act. If he’s not going to take this seriously, then we deal with the lawyer ourselves. Since she showed up, he’s been sloppy. Distracted. We can’t afford that.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You want to go after her? With how much attention he’s giving her? That’s dangerous. One wrong move and he’ll burn half of Moscow down for her.”
Dmitri words doesn’t falter, he presses on. “I don’t care. Find a way to get rid of her. Cleanly. Quietly. I want her gone before she even knows what she’s stepped into.” The room goes still.
But I don’t rebuke him. Because deep down, I know Dmitri has just drawn a line. And there will be blood.